Gibraltar 11-12th November, 2010
Fag-end of a once-great empire, let me further patronise Gibraltar by saying it’s one of those places of which my knowledge is limited - but if it’s there, that’s generally reason enough for me to visit it.
Gibraltar international was recently named in the top ten most extreme airports by none other than Channel 5, by virtue of the crosswinds that whip over the Rock and threaten to make things jolly tricky for landing aircraft – but seldom do. Part of the rather unique charm of the place is that looking at the runway you notice that it doubles as a road and pedestrian crossing in-between flights. “Don’t drop any rubbish here”, the warning sign warns – perfectly reasonably, but it goes on in a tone that wouldn’t have been out of place leaving the mouth of the petty apparatchiks in charge at my college, “next time it could be you on that plane”.
My CouchSurfing contacts exhausted, I stay over the border in Spain at the cheapest place I can find for an upsetting €28. It’s clean, cheap, and in a good location – the three boxes I seek to tick when I travel on my own. Only planning to stay for one night I put a move on and start my whistle-stop tour of Gibraltar – finding my way in through what was once the only entrance into the fortified city, pounding the cobbles of Main Street and avoiding the relentless offers of fish, chips and all-day breakfasts. My bearings are found at Trafalgar cemetery, named after those who lost their lives at the battle of the same name, and were buried before they returned home. From there it was uphill to the Rock as I stubbornly set about walking to the summit and finding all manner of dead ends. With no room for pavements, narrow staircases often took people up to their homes – with a warning reminding them at the bottom – “Look left for cars.”
The place is peculiar. The narrow winding roads that seem to have sprouted up the sides of the Rock are undoubtedly quite a feat – but I’m not a huge fan of the British seaside, and Gibraltar is pretty much that. A kind of British Dubrovnik. Except for all that we contributed, we weren’t the Venetians.
Anyway, at least the Barbary apes seem to approve. ‘They’ (that is, ‘they’ referring to people unknown in the generic sense – not the apes themselves) say that the apes made their way from Africa in under-sea tunnels that once linked the continent to Europe. One of the most famous, iconic features of Gibraltar – they are famous for their tempers and warnings are pretty clearly presented to people visiting the Rock. ‘They’re wild animals’, ‘don’t piss them off’, ‘don’t ask them stupid questions’, ‘don’t feed them or they’ll shred your arm and disrespect what was once your sandwich’, and so on.
That’s not enough for most people. And as it happens, I love it when they ignore the warnings. This time it was one particularly dozy family with a child in a push-chair, who’s blanket was stolen by an errant simian. To be fair – after a while he did tire of it, but that certainly didn’t mean that he was ready to give it up without a fight. And he didn’t. No sooner was the blanket retrieved than the little fellow was halfway up this woman’s arm chowing down on her shoulder.
That’s what happens when you don’t
‘Hail to the Chimp’.
Morocco 12-25th November, 2010
The honking of car horns grew ever louder as driver after impatient driver joined the chorus that never quite harmonised. A filthy boy led me to a taxi, and received a dry slap as thanks for his troubles before bolting, tears streaming down his face. “Taxi solo?”, no thanks old chap – do your worst. Already three people in the car – we’ll be off soon thinks I. Or not. Moroccan shared taxis work on a leave-when-full basis, and full means full. Two passengers in the front, four across the backseat, and I wonder how many of the 346,758 miles have been put on this car by the driver who joins us.
A bit of faffing ensues in Tetouan, where I have to change to a second shared taxi. This time headphones – for music – and elbows – for jabbing out some space – are both primed. My bag continues to smell of kerosene, which adds to the smelltrack of the entire journey to Chefchaouen.
It’s very much a feature of human nature that, for our brain to understand things quickly – we tend to generalise. The great shame of this, I find, is that generalise to too great an extent and things become pretty much the same and without realising it, I kind of write places off. Arriving in Chefchaouen’s medina, it’s late – and whilst maybe only somewhat reminiscent, it reminds me of the old town in Jerusalem. Now there are of course some differences. For as interesting a story as it makes, I do prefer not to walk narrow busy walkways where soldiers have machine guns, or have some member of the security forces visibly walking around with an earpiece listening to instructions. There were a number of people who offered me hashish, as the town is a well known place historically on the tourist trail where one can get high pretty easily. A clean and basic hostel here cost me £5, and when I met yet more Australians who were nothing less than excellent, we headed out for an entertaining, large dinner with wonderful hospitality and change from £4.
From the very same restaurant, Mohammed ran into me the next day whereupon he found me one of the few taxis heading in the direction of Fes, and got me in it. This car had done over 700,000 miles which explains why my passenger door wouldn’t close properly. “I probably should be more nervous about that than I am”, I said to the Mathieu beside me.
Four hours after a rather uninspiring journey reached it’s conclusion, I was staring out of the window at nothing in particular when I noticed a bound sheep being unloaded from the top of the bus. Then a goat. Then another sheep. For this was Eid dear reader, the Muslim festival which led to the excited almost Christmassy atmosphere when I got to Fes. As Christmassy as you can feel side-stepping burning sheep heads and sheepskins at every turn. The warmth still rose from the 1200-year-old city streets as I walked through the maze and eventually stumbled into the incredible oasis of my Dar courtyard accommodation, with it’s mosaic fountain and intricately painted wooden walls.
It’s always a pleasure to meet Americans who actually have some idea of the world outside their country. Normally, they’re called Canadians. In the interests of fairness I take supper with company from either side of the border, in what might be the only restaurant open that night in Fes.
Though it really isn’t for me to say, I do think I’m hilarious – but it is nice to have this verified by an independent adjudicator from time to time. So when a perfectly pleasant eavesdropper nearly spat food out his nose, I took it that I'd recounted a joke successfully. One British comic was bemoaning people who assumed that just because you went to one particular university, you therefore ought to know someone else with whom you have no connection - apart from that university. “Oh you went to Leeds, do you know so-and-so?” "Well, I never went to University" he went on to say "but no one says to me “oh so you didn’t go to University. You must know so-and-so?” on account of them also never having gone onto higher education."
Maybe it loses something in writing...
Stop, HammamtimeAt the halfway point of my trip approached, I’d planned that it would be high time for a full hammam service of lavage (washing down), gommage (scrubbing down with a coarse glove) and as a reward – a massage to conclude the whole experience. 40Dh was the amount mentioned by my Moroccan host, who also checked that I wasn’t taking any excessive amounts of money, wallet, or mobile phone with me. ‘Calm down dear!’
Hammams in this part of the world exist, historically, for reasons of necessity. Due to scarcity, the local water source was shared with the local mosque – where people could clean themselves before prayer, and keep neat and tidy generally in the absence of running water at home. This was definitely a local place, with a local feel, local people, and local languages. I soon show myself to be a tourist by inadvertently helping myself to someone else’s buckets of water – oops – before someone takes pity and shows me what I really should be doing. After unexpectedly having to wash myself, an old man who looks somewhat like Danny Glover is assigned to tend to my massage needs – but instead seems more keen on performing all manner of bizarre, though not painful, wrestling moves on me. After that, I’m washed, again, then scrubbed free of dead skin. Wherever I’ve been to public baths (St. Petersburg, Istanbul, Amman, Bishkek, etc) I find that guidebooks always try to instil a terrible fear into you – never failing to mention that you will have your skin shredded off and your spine knotted before you are tossed out onto the streets as a quivering wreck, mewing like a poorly kitten. Every time I read that, and every time I find that the treatment is never quite brutal enough for my needs. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be having to scream a safety word when it all gets too much – but get rid of my dead skin and tension and I’ll probably be happy.
Whatever you do though, don’t send some idiot skaghead to bother me with soap – only to tell me later that this most definitely costs 50Dh, on top of 150Dh for the massage. “200Dh, really? Oh dear…” I say as I sit down to disagree in the least confrontational way possible.
Maybe I can paraphrase GMF at this point,
"If life has taught me anything at all, it's how to keep my countenance in the presence of men whose rightful place is in a padded cell... Many... sharing the delusion that they could put any proposal, however lunatic, to me and make me like it. There's no arguing with such fellows, of course; all you can do, if you're lucky, is nod and say: "Well, sir, that's an interesting notion, to be sure - just before you tell me more about it, would you excuse me for a moment?" and then once you're round the corner, make for the high ground."It took about four minutes of this discussion to decide that you know, I’ve never been in a fight. If this were to be the first time I ever had to hit someone and make a run for it – I fancy my chances laying out this mentalist and bolting the 200m to my Fessis base.
Seems I wasn’t the only one thinking this, as halfway through our rather tedious negotiations some other cretin came in and exchanged slaps with the hammam fellow, as the other staff looked on shamefaced yet unable – or unwilling – to offer a reasonable price to the non-Moroccan. This rather pathetic spectacle of a fight did block the exit, so I did have to wait before slapping down 100Dh (double what I wanted, but half what they wanted), leaving, and reminding myself that I do now expect to be knowingly ripped off once in every country – but once only. Macedonia is just about the only place that springs to mind where I wasn’t.
All of that said (and tapped in as blog-worthy material) there were at least two acts of stand-out strangerly kindness for every goddamned shyster that expected me to cross their palm with silver.
Dear ChicagoI don’t care if you agree or not, but life can get pretty boring at times. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t actually play centre-forward for Queens Park Rangers, and divide my off-seasons between winning the Ashes or touring with my rock and roll super group. Undoubtedly it’s a legacy of doing the easy thing and not making anything happen I suppose, but I’m only reminded of the fact when someone comes into my life and I’m reminded that for however brief a time – anything seems possible.
Someone is vague actually. It’s a girl. It’s always a girl.
In the space of a few hours, this group that I had become a part of had totally changed my perspective on the holiday. They used words like “gash” and “flange” in a vegan café and suddenly, instead of my fairly methodical plans for the remaining five days of the trip (where I was staying overnight, how I was to travel, what I was going to eat and what I was to see each day), I went with the flow and found myself happy to do something I rarely find myself planning for when I travel on my own – just hanging out.
Gone were my seaside crepes with amlou. Gone was my lobster plucked freshly from the Atlantic, with the wind in my hair and another four hour bus journey losing myself in music and panorama. In came cactus fruit, pissing off some idiot who put a doped-up snake around my neck expecting a tip, and genuinely interesting conversation. Also unplanned, my Moroccan cold worsened – a Snickers the only sustenance my body demanded in three days as I tried to stay hydrated and succeeded in losing my voice – something that strangely, I enjoy.
Soon enough though, and as soon as co-incidence had brought us together, co-incidence set us back on our regular courses once more. Maybe I read too much into it all but it did remind me that as introspective as I can be, the right company does coax me out of my shell and maybe, just maybe, not every man is an island - just a peninsula.
Marrakech (s)express. “This place is sex massage”, he says. “Right ok, but you’re taking me to where I want to go, aren’t you?” I ask my guide. He leaves in disgust when we arrive at
my destination, and I have no more than 2Dh to tip him with. Obviously I understand that a lot of people go to a bath house for sex. Sex for money. Once that seed of suggestion was planted in my head, it was tough to shift.
“You want male or female massage?” Bit of a no-brainer really. “Take off all your clothes, just leave your underwear”. Fair enough. “Follow me”. You’re the boss. “Are you fine?” I’m asked by the young lady, as I raise an eyebrow and straighten the cravat in my mind.
She leaves and after some time, I open my eyes and look down at myself. In doing so I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. Breakfast is an important meal – that I know, but when you’re up at 4am it’s not so appealing, and so you might as well delay it slightly, right? Wrong. The rule does not apply when your breakfast comprises of seven ice cream Snickers, go home, go to sleep, and wake up some hours later liberally covered in peanut-ty sick. This is what my exfoliating olive oil massage looked like, and any amorous thoughts were quickly and thoroughly dispatched with.
I took all of my will power not to punctuate the tranquil Enya bollocks music with howls of laughter as my feet were massaged – instead I sobbed with laughter into the hole in the massage table. “Just relax”. This experience was much more in line with what I wanted compared to the Fes debacle, and I strolled back to my hostel with the sunlight shining through the medina roof, and leading the way.
Nicely prepared for my flight, and with tension mostly dispelled, it’s bismallah Morocco - I’ll miss you. Though not for the reasons I would have thought.
Following on from the Danes’ magical triumph at Euro ’92, it was England-free USA ’94 that gave rise to the great underdogs on the world stage. That World Cup was truly wonderful preparation for Euro ’96 (“the Greatest Summer Ever”TM) and one I still remember fondly as being bathed in constant sunshine as Diego Maradona went apeshit and I kicked a small leather football around in the garden after yet another McDonalds Hattrick burger. Two of the little-fancied teams that came from absolutely nowhere, or more accurately, the Balkans, to lodge themselves in the glorious compendium that is my collection of footballing memories.
There is always a danger of Museum fatigue when travelling. Though some are truly fantastic and are absolutely worth a trip in their own right, that most are so frequently found at the top of the to-do in most destinations, means that occasionally they need to offer something different to really pique your interest. Something different to really stand out. Something like... Jesus' diapers.
